


AbbityStabbity and IchabodCrane1781 vs The World

by Skeiler



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Epic Bromance, Friendship, Gaming, Gen, Witty Banter, far too much research for one short fic, fat ugly or slutty, tw: misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeiler/pseuds/Skeiler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod and Abbie have some down time, and Abbie decides to teach Ichabod the joys of playing Call of Duty multiplayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AbbityStabbity and IchabodCrane1781 vs The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paraspriteful](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=paraspriteful).



> Written as a gift for paraspriteful.tumblr.com for the Sleepy Hollow Secret Santa gift exchange (http://sleepyhollowss.tumblr.com/).

It was the end of another long, world-saving day. Three months into this Witnessing thing and Abbie still couldn't get the hang of it—monsters, demons, a two hundred and fifty year old man-baby who was still outraged by the indignities of modern life.

"This canned beer is appalling," Crane said, for what seemed like the fiftieth time.

Abbie sighed. "But it's Sam Adams. I thought you'd like that. Weren’t you BFFs or something?”

"Samuel Adams was a _maltser_ , not a brewer," Crane replied, testily. "I don't know what relation this man claims to my _friend_ , but his so-called 'Boston lager' is quite unlike anything the _real_ Samuel Adams would have brewed if he had chosen that profession."

"So what kind of beer would _you_ like to have?" Abbie asked, with sarcastic sweetness.

"Surely they still produce ale in this country," Crane inquired. "I enjoyed many stimulating conversations with old Ben Franklin over pints of ale."

Abbie gave him her standard 'I cannot believe you just name-dropped a Founding Father at me again' look. "I will get a six pack of some kind of ale the next time I go shopping. Until then you can drink Sam Adams or you can drink water."

"And will this 'six pack' be full of cans?" Ichabod wondered.

"Maybe," Abbie replied, with clenched teeth. "Or it might be bottles."

"Oh, _bottles_! How luxurious," Crane shot back in a voice that dripped with disdain.

"How would you drink beer, Crane?"

"In a tankard, from a _cask_ , as God intended.”

He sounded so offended by the notion of beer in a can that Abbie had to try very hard not to smile. They were sitting at Abbie's kitchen table eating homemade hamburgers and store brand potato chips. Abbie had decided it was high time Crane started learning how to be a normal twenty-first century person, and had invited him over to a typical American dinner between two friends. She was also trying to keep him occupied when they weren't immediately confronted by the monster of the week so that he didn't have as much time for his new hobbies—like correcting the public library's American Revolution history books. One night he'd called her _seventeen times_ between one and four in the morning to complain about a high school history textbook and the state of modern education.

Crane took another sip of his beer and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He pushed the offending can away from him. “So, Miss Mills, what do you do with the friends you invite over for dinner?”

“It depends,” she replied, sitting back in her chair. “Sometimes we just, you know. _Talk_. But if there’s a game on, sometimes we watch that. Or we play Xbox. It depends on the friend.”

“What is an ‘ex box,’ pray?” Ichabod asked, suddenly confused. “In what way is it formerly a box?”

Abbie laughed. “X-b-o-x. It’s a game console. You play video games on it.”

“Video games,” Crane repeated. He was nodding and smiling at her like he understood what she was saying, when it was pretty clear he didn’t.

Abbie sighed. “Come on. Leave your plate, I’ll clean it up later.”

They walked over to the living room and sat down on Abbie’s couch. She fired up the console while Ichabod sat with his arms crossed, waiting to be impressed. The menu screen popped up, showing Abbie’s avatar.

“Is that meant to be you, Miss Mills?” Crane asked. “Or should I say, ‘Abbity Stabbity’?”

“Yes it is,” Abbie replied, grinning. She held up the controller. “Joysticks move you around, these buttons do different things—this one to jump, this one to shoot.” She toggled the options on the screen until she’d highlighted Call of Duty: Ghosts. “This is Call of Duty, the greatest game in existence. You’re a Special Ops agent doing different things behind enemy lines, like stopping the bad guys from using a apocalyptic superweapon.”

“You could be describing my entire life, Miss Mills,” Crane interjected wryly.

Abbie gave him a look, but had to admit that he had a point. “The first Call of Duty was set during World War II, but I like the Modern Warfare ones. The best thing about the Call of Duty games is multiplayer. You get together with some friends and go up against another team. The objective is to beat them.”

She toggled through the options to multiplayer mode and loaded into the lobby. Almost immediately a friend of hers messaged her and invited her to join an existing group. “All right,” she said, “Katie girl! This will be a fun game. Katie’s a friend of mine. We kick a lot of butt and people get mad.”

She flashed Crane a smile and winked at him. He gave her a nonplussed smile. Over the speakers, her friend chirped, “Abbitystabbity, my favorite! How many ODIN Strikes are you gonna get today?”

The game started. It didn’t take long—Abbie’s team steamrolled the other, and Abbie made short work of their highest rated player several times. Crane leant forward with a perplexed look on his face, his chin cradled in his hand. There was a chorus of infuriated screams from the other team. Abbie cackled and held up her fist towards Crane.

“Listen to them shout,” she laughed. Into her mic she asked, “You mad? Are you mad? Yeah, you are _mad_.”

Crane gave her a look that indicated he felt some distaste for her choice of amusement, but bumped her fist gingerly all the same. “Miss Mills, I’m not sure I understand the appeal of this… game. 

Abbie signed off from the multiplayer and went back to the console menu.

“It’s fun,” she shrugged. “It’s a way to blow off steam. You know? You build up all this frustration—all this tension and anxiety and fear. You feel like things are out of your control, or there’s someone who… Someone who’s pissed you off, and you want to be able to _say something_ or _do something_. Like, hit them. But for whatever reason you can’t. So you can come play a game and it gets all of that out. Especially since you’re usually beating down some white trash racist or guy who just loses his shit because he wasn’t as good at something as a woman. So not only are you making yourself feel better—you’re putting some jerk in his place.”

Sure enough, a message popped up in the corner of the screen. Abbie opened it up.

_Your face reminds me of a wrench because every time I think of it my nuts tighten up._

Abbie threw back her head and laughed. “Yeah, he mad.”

“Miss Mills, that is appalling, ungentlemanly behavior,” Crane said, shocked. “Is it usual for young men to speak to women like that?”

“It’s not uncommon, especially in a game like this. And that isn’t the worst I’ve ever gotten,” Abbie replied. She heaved a sigh. “But it sucks. It’s disrespectful and it just shows how far our society has to go, that anyone could spew bile and hate at another person over some pixels. But online, hiding behind a screen name—guys think they can get away with anything. All I know is if anyone ever talked to me like that to my face, I’d tell them exactly what I thought of them. In a game, I just kick their butts until they throw their little headsets on the ground and rage quit.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Abbie sighed, wishing it were easier to school punks online about how to treat women with respect. She looked up and caught Crane watching her. He looked worried, or maybe sad. She wondered what he was thinking. She could imagine, though. The world was so different—the meanness, the cruelty of humanity was so much more visible now that everyone was connected to each other.

Abbie picked up the second controller and held it out to Crane. “Want to help me kick some butt?”

Crane took a deep breath. “Absolutely, Lieutenant.”

 

 _Epilogue_ : “Miss Mills, I cannot see where I am— Miss Mills I can’t get out from behind this wall. Oh dear, I’ve been shot. Miss Mills!  Lieutenant! Help!”

“Crane, you need a better nickname than IchabodCrane1781.”


End file.
